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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24302515">lover, destroyed</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/phcbosz/pseuds/phcbosz'>phcbosz</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>laughter, not poison [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Child Abuse, Coming Out, Depression, Fluff, Gender Dysphoria, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Male Character, Trans Martín Berrote, Transphobia, lets make that a tag pls i need more trans martin fics</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 02:33:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,992</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24302515</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/phcbosz/pseuds/phcbosz</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not a secret. He just doesn’t tell Andres because Andres doesn’t need to know.</p><p> He isn’t scared—he isn’t.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>laughter, not poison [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1848520</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>151</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. boy, erased</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>trigger warning in the tags and to add to that there are also slurs used so be careful!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s not really a secret.</p>
<p> Martín isn’t ashamed or scared. He isn’t.</p>
<p> His mom kicked him out when he was 17, and ever since the first night he spent outside on the streets, he hasn’t been scared.</p>
<p> It’s not a secret. He just doesn’t tell Andrés because Andrés doesn’t need to know.</p>
<p> He isn’t scared—he isn’t.</p>
<p>part I</p>
<p> He cuts his hair short when he is 16. His mom gets really mad. She calls him a lesbian. Martín responds by bringing a boy over and fucking him, loud and fast inside his room.</p>
<p> His hair looks like a mess whatever he does, and his mom tells him if he doesn’t grow it out, he better pack his bags and leave.</p>
<p> “It’s just hair, mama,” he says, and he flinches when he feels the tears on his cheeks, “I’m your kid! I’m your fucking kid and it’s just some hair!”</p>
<p> His mom doesn’t reply, just turns around and leaves, and Martín crumbles like a piece of paper, falls down to the ground, and he is shaking, crying so hard that it hurts his chest.</p>
<p> “I’m your fucking kid, mama,” he screams, loud enough for her to hear in her room, “I’m your flesh and blood—you can’t fucking escape me, you created me, mom!”</p>
<p> He thinks maybe she makes such a big deal out of just some hair because she <i>knows</i>. She knows something is wrong with Martín.</p>
<p> Martín wishes he could tell her what’s going on exactly, but he isn’t that brave—he never has been.</p>
<p> “Julia,” his mom says, picking him off the ground, and he crawls into her arms, hides his face in her neck, can’t bear to look at her up close. “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay, you’re still beautiful. My beautiful baby girl,” she says, and she is caressing his hair, she is so gentle with him, like he might break any minute, and Martín wants to throw up, he wants to throw up and he wants his mom to choke on it—</p>
<p> “We will get it fixed, hm?” She asks, “go to the salon tomorrow, get you a nicer haircut, prettier, and you can keep it short if you want, Julia, of course you can. It’s okay, now, don’t cry, baby, don’t cry.”</p>
<p> He doesn’t know why he is crying really.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p> “I’m trans,” he says to the mirror.</p>
<p> “I’m trans,” he tells Miguel.</p>
<p> He’s only fifteen.</p>
<p> “I prefer to be called Martín,” he says.</p>
<p> Some people listen. Most don’t.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p> “Miguel, since you fucked Martín, are you gay now?” Ani asks, and Martín feels his face go red, from shame and anger.</p>
<p> “Shut up,” he says, but the whole table is laughing now, and Miguel looks mad. Miguel stands up.</p>
<p> “What, you telling me she looks like a boy just because her hair is short?” Miguel spits out, and all the red drains from Martín’s face, he pales, and his chest feels tight, like he is wearing a shirt three times too small, “I’m not a fucking faggot, she is still a girl where it matters.”</p>
<p> Martín stands up so suddenly that his chair tips over, falls to the ground with a loud bang, and the table goes silent, everyone staring at him. He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe—</p>
<p> “Fuck you,” he tells Miguel and walks away, his head spinning.</p>
<p> “Oh, <i>come on</i>, Martín, I didn’t mean it like that,” Miguel protests, trying to follow him, and Martín sees red, he sees red, he doesn’t know what he is doing, he turns around and punches Miguel right in the mouth, and Miguel goes down like a doll, boneless, and Martín doesn’t even register the pain in his hand.</p>
<p> He follows Miguel down; he follows Miguel and he doesn’t remember the rest.</p>
<p> When he finally comes to himself, his knuckles are bloody, and he is crying on the bathroom floor. There are teachers outside. Asking him to come out. They want to talk to him. He doesn’t need to be scared. It’s okay.</p>
<p> “It’s okay, Julia,” his history teacher keeps saying.</p>
<p> “It’s Martín,” he says, small, then clears his throat, repeats it, “it’s Martín. My name is Martín.”</p>
<p> There is silence for a few seconds. Then, “okay, Martín, honey, you don’t need to be scared, just come out before you do something you regret, okay? You’re not in trouble, Martín.”</p>
<p> It feels so good to hear his name like that that he lets a few tears slip, and when he smiles, his split lip starts bleeding. He doesn’t know how that happened.</p>
<p> He fishes the knife he took from the kitchen outside of his pocket. He doesn’t remember taking it. It’s heavy in his hands.</p>
<p> He looks at his wrist. It seems so frail, his veins so green underneath his skin, looking like vines, and he wants to cut them all, he wants to burn it like it’s a forest, create a fire bigger than the one that burned the Amazon, and he takes the knife, presses it against where he knows will bleed the most, and he tells himself to press down, press down and drag it, he counts, one, two, three, and then counts again, one, two, three—</p>
<p> They open the door before he gains the courage to do it.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p> He is only seven years old and he knows there’s something wrong with him, with his body or his mind—maybe both. His name is Julia back then.</p>
<p> “Mama,” he says, or she says, or he says—</p>
<p> “Do you like me, mama?”</p>
<p> His mom looks shocked, but is quick to act, pulling him in, and caressing his hair. “Of course I do, baby, I love you so much,” she says, with a little laugh, like she can’t believe that he actually asked her that.</p>
<p> “But do you like me, really like me,” he asks, because he can’t stop thinking about it, “would you still like me if I was different?”</p>
<p> His mom is silent for a few seconds. “Of course, Julia. You’re my daughter. You’re my baby—I will love you, no matter what.”</p>
<p> “I think there might be something wrong with me,” he whispers, and his eyes are burning, and his mother shushes him, pulls him in, kisses his hair—she is so gentle—</p>
<p> (She used to be so gentle with him, she used to like him, love him, she was his mom—)</p>
<p> “There’s nothing wrong with you, baby,” she says, rocking him gently, “you’re perfect. You’re my perfect baby girl.”</p>
<p>*</p>
<p> “I just want to know what happened to my little girl!” His mom is screaming. She does that a lot nowadays. She is angry with Martín, no matter what he does, she is angry, because she thinks Martín stole something from her, she thinks Martín stole her daughter away—and maybe he did.</p>
<p> “I’m still me, mama,” he is begging at this point, he is begging because he just needs his mom to understand, he just wants his mom to pull him close again tell him you’re perfect, you’re my perfect baby boy—</p>
<p> “No, you’re not,” she says, and they are so close now that Martín can see the utter rage in her eyes. “Look at you! What happened to my Julia, my wonderful Julia—what did you do to her?”</p>
<p> He almost chokes on his laugh. “What do you want me to say, mama?” He asks, and he’s not yelling anymore, he’s too tired for it. “Huh? You want me to say she’s dead? She’s dead, mama, I killed her, and this is what’s left behind—”</p>
<p> It’s so sudden. Martín doesn’t even register the pain on his cheek. He just hears the sound of skin meeting skin, feels a little bit of warmth, a sudden rush of air right beside his air—</p>
<p> His mom looks shocked at what she did. She doesn’t look like she regrets it, though.</p>
<p> When Martín smiles, his cheek starts throbbing. “You’re never getting her back,” he says, he spits, it’s pure venom dripping from his lips, and his mom is crying now, “you’re never getting her back so you better accept that I’m your son now, or you will just forever be disappointed.”</p>
<p> She stares at him, looks at him like she doesn’t even see him, or maybe like she sees through him, through his skin, looks right into his soul—</p>
<p> “Get out of my house and never come back,” she says.</p>
<p> Martín spits the blood in his mouth on the ground. “Sorry I didn’t turn out the way you wanted me to, mama,” he says only because he wants to have the last word, but it backfires on him because—</p>
<p> Because: his mother looks away like she can’t even bear to look at him anymore. “I can’t even recognize you anymore, Julia, and I don’t want a stranger in my house. Get the fuck out,” she says. She says <i>that</i>, to <i>Martín</i>, to her own flesh and blood, her beautiful, perfect little baby girl, she says that—</p>
<p> It hurts, it hurts, <i>it hurts</i> and that’s that.</p>
<p> Martín packs a bag and leaves. He wants to scream.</p>
<p> He wants to scream <i>can’t you see, mama?</i> I don’t recognize myself either. I don’t recognize this creature I’ve turned into, skin like glass and filled up to the brim with pain—mama, do you even see me? Please, look at me and tell me you see me, you see your daughter in me, because I’m her, I’m just a little different, but I’m her, mama, I’m still me, please, just look at me and tell me you love me still, <i>despite everything</i>—</p>
<p> He wants to scream. He doesn’t. He just packs a bag and leaves.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. man, scarred</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>part II.</p>
<p> It’s not like it matters. It doesn’t change anything—Martín is still Martín.</p>
<p> Andrés doesn’t need to know, not really because it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter—</p>
<p> But then… doesn’t it, even just a tiny bit?</p>
<p>*</p>
<p> Sometimes Martín has one-night stands. It’s a double-edged knife really, to tell them or not.</p>
<p> When he tells them, the worst-case scenario is they make a scene.</p>
<p> When he doesn’t tell them, the worst-case scenario is he gets murdered or something.</p>
<p> Still, sometimes it feels like he would prefer that over a guy yelling him slurs at the bar, attracting everyone’s attention, and everyone stares at him, and they all know, then, they all know what’s going on with Martín Berrote, what’s between his legs, what’s in his pants, what’s under his skin, buried deep withing his ribcage—</p>
<p> It’s not like he wants to die. He doesn’t. But sometimes—</p>
<p> Sometimes it just feels like it would be easier than getting up to walk away, with everyone’s eyes on him.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p> He thinks maybe Andrés might know. But Martín passes, he passes very well that you can’t tell at all—</p>
<p> That’s what he tells himself to calm down when people stare at him on the street.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p> The thing is, a few years pass, and Martín still hasn’t told Andrés, and it’s starting to seem like he never will because he—</p>
<p> He isn’t scared. <i>He isn’t scared</i>. He just knows what happens when you disappoint people you love, who love you, when you turn out the way they didn’t expect—</p>
<p> He doesn’t want to lose Andrés.</p>
<p> He has lost enough already.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p> Sometimes, he will see women who look a lot like his mom. It’s always such a shock. He wants to run up to them, to check, make sure they’re not <i>mama</i> because they can’t be, they can’t be—</p>
<p> Because mama is dead, and she requested that Martín doesn’t attend her funeral.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p> “Martín,” Andrés says, from the doorway, and Martín flinches awake, pulling the thin covers up his chest like he is hiding evidence at a crime scene. Maybe he is.</p>
<p> Andrés looks confused for a second, before he shakes it off, and Martín blinks the sleep away, tries to get his head straight. “Andrés,” he breathes out, a certain vulnerability in his voice due to not being fully awake.</p>
<p> “Breakfast is ready, we’re waiting for you to start,” Andrés says, and turns around to leave.</p>
<p> That night, Martín dreams about finally standing straight, and allowing Andrés to look, to see, all the scars he has, proof of everything he went through, everything he survived, he just wants Andrés to take a look, see it, and then act like nothing has changed, he just wants Andrés to accept him, he just wants someone to accept him for who he is for once—</p>
<p> He wakes up with a foul taste in his mouth, and as he brushes his teeth, he avoids his eyes in the mirror, he avoids looking at himself and tries to forget his dream because that’s all it is. A dream that can never become reality.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p> When Andrés gets married for the fourth time, Martín wants to stop him, grab him by the arm, ask him <i>what are you doing, Andrés?</i> What are you trying to achieve? What is it that’s missing in your life that you can think you can gain by doing this—</p>
<p> By doing this <i>to me</i>—</p>
<p> Andrés—</p>
<p>*</p>
<p> He doesn’t say anything of course. Until months later.</p>
<p> They tell her about the robberies. Andrés claims that there can be no secrets in love, if you love someone you have to be completely honest, and Martín just scoffs, doesn’t bother to argue because he is scared shitless that Andrés will ask him what he is hiding, then, and Andrés will demand he tell him, no secrets in love, after all, and Martín is just so scared, all the time—</p>
<p> “Oh, you do robberies, too?” She says, sounding surprised.</p>
<p> Martín feels a little defensive because of her tone of voice but he doesn’t know why. Andrés doesn’t seem to notice it. He just puts a lazy arm around Martín’s shoulders. “Yes, he’s my partner in crime, aren’t you, Martín.”</p>
<p> Martín forces himself to smile, but she is staring at him in such a way—</p>
<p> “Well, I just figured, you know, since he’s…” she doesn’t say anything else, just smiles sheepishly, and the temperature in the room drops a hundred degrees.</p>
<p> “Since I’m what?” He asks, as calm as he can, and only Andrés can tell that he’s getting mad.</p>
<p> “You’re a little bit… See, sorry if I’m wrong but aren’t you… I don’t know how to say it,” she giggles, like it’s funny, “well you are a little bit girly for a real man, aren’t you?”</p>
<p> Hours later, Andrés finds Martín in his room, trying to drink himself to an early death.</p>
<p> “Martín,” he sighs, and Martín shakes his head.</p>
<p> “You already made it clear where I stand, Andrés,” he says with a hollow chuckle, “no need to say anything else. I get it. I do. I’m just your <i>sissy</i> faggot friend, and I shouldn’t have raised my voice to your wife, <i>please</i>, give her my fucking apologies.”</p>
<p> “It was just a miscommunication problem, Martín, por favor,” Andrés snaps, “don’t be so dramatic.”</p>
<p> Martín shuts up, of course he does, because he knows how easy it would be for Andrés to kick him out, say goodbye to him forever, because he doesn’t need his little gay partner in crime now, he doesn’t because he has a new pretty wife and—</p>
<p> Martín feels a lot like he has been left behind, like a wounded soldier at the battleground, bleeding out slowly, and knowing everybody left, everybody left him to die, and it will be slow, it will be painful, and nobody will come back for him—</p>
<p> Andrés stays married to that bitch for only two weeks. Martín thinks that’s two weeks too long, but he doesn’t tell Andrés anything, he doesn’t complain at all.</p>
<p> Plus, it’s quite the reality check. Martín knows where he stands now, in Andrés’ world, and he now knows he’s not worth that much.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p> After she leaves, Martín wants to grab Andrés and tell him <i>we don’t need anyone else.</i> You have me and I’m enough, please, <i>you</i> don’t need anyone else.</p>
<p> He wants to grab Andrés’ hand, and pull it between his legs, let Andrés grasp empty air, and he wants to say, <i>I can be whatever you want, Andrés,</i> you can mold me into anything you want because I’m hot clay in your hands, he wants to say, <i>Andrés,</i> take me, take me because I’m <i>still a girl where it matters</i>, just take me, please—</p>
<p> He dreams and when he wakes up, he feels like throwing up. “Morning sickness,” he tells Andrés when the man asks about it, and they laugh, because it is a funny joke, it is—</p>
<p> Martín feels like there is a force constantly pushing down his shoulders, and ever since he got top surgery, he did his best to stand straight, proud, but around Andrés, he always feels like slouching.</p>
<p> Maybe it’s the defeat. Martín feels defeated, like Andrés conquered him. He just wants to beg Andrés to stop, but Andrés isn’t even doing anything—</p>
<p>*</p>
<p> It’s all Martín. It’s all Martín. He does everything himself.</p>
<p> He always ends up in a mess, somehow, it’s just how he is.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p> More years pass. At this point, it’s a miracle that it’s still a secret—Martín thinks Andrés knows, just doesn’t bother to talk about it, and then one day—</p>
<p> One day, Andrés kisses him, and Martín knows he is leaving, then, he knows Andrés is about to leave so he does his best to take one good lick, one last sip to burn his mouth forever…</p>
<p>*</p>
<p> He tells himself it’s a good thing Andrés left, because now, at least now, Martín doesn’t ever have to tell him.</p>
<p> He dreams of drinking Andrés through a straw, and wakes up with a hangover, crying.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. lover, destroyed</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>part III.</p><p> Andrés comes back. He wants to print bills together.</p><p> If Martín was a stronger man, if he was a stronger man, he would have said no.</p><p> He would have said <i>no</i>, get the fuck out of here, I never want to see you again—</p><p> You ruined me, you ruined me, you ruined me—</p><p> He’s not a strong man. He never has been.</p><p>*</p><p> He doesn’t know how he feels about all the other ones.</p><p> He can tell Helsinki is gay instantly, and it gives him a certain anxiety, some nights he lays awake thinking, <i>is it that obvious with me too?</i> Can people take one look at me and just tell?</p><p> He tries not to think about it.</p><p>*</p><p> Everything has changed between him and Andrés.</p><p> They are supposed to act like they don’t know each other, Martín is supposed to call him Berlin now, and when Andrés says Palermo, he means Martín—</p><p> It’s fine. He finds that he doesn’t really care.</p><p> Plus, it makes it easier, when he has to stay away from Andrés, when they are not allowed to touch each other like they used to, when Andrés isn’t allowed to say Martín’s name in such a way that Martín never wants to hear his name from someone else ever again—</p><p>*</p><p> Manila is something else. Everybody is talking about it, and she looks like she doesn’t even care, she looks like she doesn’t give a shit, and Martín wants to grab her, shake her, and ask her <i>how</i>, how can you be so brave?</p><p> One breakfast, Rio clears his throat. “So, like,” he says, seeming shy, and then just mimes with his finger.</p><p> The whole table laughs, including her. “Do you want to find out?” She asks, licking her lips, and leaning forward, and Martín feels a little bit sick, like he is about to throw up.</p><p> “Woah!” Rio says, covering his face, and everybody is just having fun, nobody seems like they care and, and Martín doesn’t really know how to deal with it.</p><p> He slips away quietly, trying to not make a scene, because he’s afraid that if he does, everybody will find out, just like that, his façade will be over.</p><p>*</p><p> “Palermo,” she says, pursing her lips. It’s 2 am.</p><p> “What do you want?” He asks, trying to sound as rude as possible, but he still opens the door wider, lets her in.</p><p> “Nothing, really,” she says, walking around the room, examining everything. She’s the only person Martín has let in.</p><p>*</p><p> They end up drinking a lot, and it’s easy to get drunk with good company. They are dancing around, just having a fun time, when the door bangs open—</p><p> Martín jumps up, turns around to see Andrés, and his face gets redder, not from the alcohol this time.</p><p> Manila turns off the music. “It’s 3 am,” Andrés says, and he seems really angry.</p><p> Martín can’t help but laugh at the look on his face, and Manila is trying to hold in her giggles.</p><p> “What, you don’t want to join us, Berlin?” He asks, and Andrés just clenches his jaw, shuts the door with a bang and leaves.</p><p> Martín bursts out giggling. Manila is looking at him.</p><p> “Want to talk about it?” She asks, and Martín doesn’t feel like laughing anymore.</p><p> They lay down and they talk, and they fall asleep, a tangled mess.</p><p>*</p><p> A few days pass, and things are starting to seem okay, when one day, during breakfast—</p><p> “Where is Manila?” Tokyo asks.</p><p> Martín shrugs. “She wanted to sleep in since ‘class’ starts later today.”</p><p> Tokyo purses her lips, looking away, and Martín would just ignore it, but—</p><p> But. “What?” He snaps.</p><p> “Nothing, nothing,” she says, holding her hands up, “you know she is still a woman, right?”</p><p> Martín swallows, feeling himself pale. “Why wouldn’t she be a woman, huh?” He asks, knowing the answer.</p><p> Tokyo clenches her jaw. “That’s what I’m saying. She is a woman. I thought with all your stupid speeches you wouldn’t be into her—”</p><p> “Tokyo, <i>por favor,</i>” Andrés, who has been quiet this whole time, interrupts, putting his newspaper down. “Palermo has a pattern of falling in love with impossible people. Plus, who are we to judge if he decided he changed his mind, and women are okay as long as they have a penis—”</p><p> Martín stands up. “Shut up, <i>Andrés,</i>” he says, spits out, and the whole table is silent now, nobody even breathes.</p><p> Andrés laughs, hollow and mean. “What? Is it too soon to joke about it, <i>Martín?</i> I think it’s quite funny.”</p><p> Martín wants to hurt Andrés, he wants to hurt Andrés like nobody has ever hurt him before, he wants to hurt Andrés like Andrés hurt him, but he doesn’t know how, he only knows Andrés doesn’t care about him enough to get hurt—</p><p> But still. “I know what I like, unlike some people,” he spits out, and Andrés clenches his jaw, “and I know I don’t like woman—and Manila is a fucking woman, no matter what,” he says the last part looking at Tokyo, and then he leaves, bumping into Sergio but not sparing a glance at him.</p><p> “Palermo,” he starts, but Martín interrupts, pointing a finger at him.</p><p> “Don’t say a fucking word, <i>Professor.</i>”</p><p>*</p><p> “It’s peaceful out here, isn’t it?” Helsinki asks, and Martín looks away from the sky into the man’s eyes.</p><p> “It’s just quiet,” he says with a shrug, “nothing philosophical about it.”</p><p> Helsinki is silent for a few seconds, before he takes out a joint. “Wow, Helsinki,” Martín chuckles, “don’t let the professor see you with that.”</p><p> Helsinki smiles, takes a drag, and offers it to Martín, who takes it with a grateful smile. Their fingers brush, and he knows what it means, the way Helsinki is looking at him.</p><p>*</p><p> “There’s something,” he says, <i>something I have to tell you,</i> something you should know, something wrong with me—</p><p> Helsinki stops kissing him, leans back. Martín smiles, trying to swallow his fear, but it’s too big of a lump, he almost chokes on it.</p><p> He takes Helsinki’s hand, the man has huge hands, and drags it to between his legs, and lets Helsinki figure it out himself. The man looks confused, lost, and Martín accepts that he needs to say it out loud, he needs to say the word—</p><p> “I’m trans,” he says with a shrug, and Helsinki pulls his hand back, slowly, like ripping off a band-aid in the most painful way.</p><p> They still end up in bed.</p><p> Afterwards, Helsinki doesn’t leave. He doesn’t run away. Martín thinks about kicking the man out but—</p><p> But. It’s just good to feel loved for one night, in Helsinki’s arms, knowing the man knows and he doesn’t care, he didn’t even flinch—</p><p>*</p><p> “I think there was a rule about ‘personal relationships’,” Andrés says that morning, not quite looking at Martín.</p><p> Sergio pushes his glasses up. “Yes, well, of course there is.”</p><p> Andrés sighs, smirking. “Then do tell me why everyone is fucking each other?”</p><p> Sergio frowns, looking around the table with a shocked expression. “Berlin,” he starts, but Andrés doesn’t let it go, of course he doesn’t.</p><p> “I mean, did I miss something, is Palermo the team’s little whore?” Andrés is smirking, and Martín is finding it hard to breathe, the silence around the table making it easier for him to hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears, “first Manila, and now Helsinki… Soon, he will have slept with all of us before we know it.”</p><p> “What the fuck is your problem?” Martín spits, and it hurts to talk with how tight his chest feels, how heavy the air is.</p><p> “Nothing,” Andrés replies with a shrug, still that smug smirk on his lips, looking like he won, and maybe he did, maybe he is still winning. “I just want to know what’s going on.”</p><p> Martín gets up, slow and calm, takes one last sip of his coffee and rolls his eyes. “It’s none of your business, <i>Berlin</i>.”</p><p> And he leaves without looking back. The silence follows him all the way to his room, and when he throws himself on the bed, his eyes are burning, but he doesn’t allow himself to cry.</p><p>*</p><p> “How long have you known Berlin?” Nairobi asks one evening, when the moon is laying lazy and the whole world is quiet.</p><p> Martín sighs. “10 years, give or take.”</p><p> Nairobi nods, processing the information slowly, taking small sips. “He doesn’t like seeing you with others,” she says.</p><p> Martín laughs. “What gives you <i>that</i> idea?”</p><p> Nairobi smiles at him, gently, like she is looking at a wounded puppy she found on the side of the road. “You avoid looking at him so much that you don’t see the way he stares at you.”</p><p> And with that, she leaves. Even the stars seem more meaningful for a second, before Martín shakes it off, knowing it’s too dangerous to hope when it’s about Andrés.</p><p>*</p><p> “I never took you for the type to use drugs,” Andrés says, laying in Martín’s bed, “but I guess I don’t know you that well after all.”</p><p> Martín’s heart stops beating, and then beats so fast that he gets dizzy, and he feels a lot like throwing up, a little like he is about to faint.</p><p> “What are you doing, Andrés?” He asks, and Andrés gets up from the bed, shrugs.</p><p> He is holding one of Martín’s testosterone shots in his hand. “Just wondering what this is,” he replies.</p><p> Martín wets his lips, blinks back angry tears, and swallows the urge to scream. “You can read, can’t you?”</p><p> Andrés chuckles, a hollow sound. “Steroids?” The man asks, and Martín rolls his eyes.</p><p> “No, Andrés,” he replies, walks forward and snatches it out of Andrés’ grasp. They are close now, close enough that Martín sees the way Andrés is looking at him, and he has to force himself to look away, before he does something he regrets. “Now get out of my room.”</p><p> “Martín,” Andrés breathes out, and he raises his arm, slow, so slow, until his hand is on Martín’s cheek, and Martín shivers, feels like his whole body is burning, a fire only Andrés can put out. “I miss you.”</p><p> He whispers it, like it’s a secret only meant for the two of them to hear, and Martín can’t do it anymore, he turns his head, and brown meets blue, and Andrés is staring at him in such a way that Martín feels like he is finally being seen. “Andrés,” he whispers, and his mind is just a mantra of <i>Andrés, Andrés, Andrés,</i> like a prayer—</p><p> He takes a step back, and finds it easier to breath all of a sudden, he has to look away from the hurt he sees in Andrés’ eyes but he tells himself it’s worth it, it’s worth it to save him from the pain that will come if he accepts Andrés’ touch. “Get out of my room,” he repeats, his voice a lot less small, his shoulders squared and his chin raised. “<i>Please.</i>”</p><p> Andrés clenches his jaw, swallows with a nod, and leaves without another word. Martín only lets himself cry when he hears Andrés slam the door behind himself, and it feels freeing, finally letting it all go instead of keeping all that poison in his body, slowly killing him.</p><p>*</p><p> That night, he dreams of dying in Andrés’ arms. He doesn’t know what it means, but when he wakes up, he feels strangely peaceful, like a weight has been lifted off his chest.</p><p>*</p><p> They all go out drinking one day, and it’s fun. Andrés isn’t there.</p><p> When they come back home, a mess of tangled limbs and drunken giggles, Martín thinks he sees a shadow in one of the windows, staring at him, but it’s gone before his eyes focus.</p><p>*</p><p> “Palermo,” the Professor says, standing at the doorway.</p><p> “Sergio,” Martín replies, “what a pleasant surprise. Come in, don’t be shy.”</p><p> Sergio clears his throat, looking unsure before he steps inside and closes the door behind himself.</p><p> “Did you finally decide to take me up in my offer for a blowjob?” Martín asks, walking forward slowly, and every step he takes forward, Sergio takes one back.</p><p> “No,” Sergio replies, his face a little red, and his body stiff. “Palermo—”</p><p> “Call me Martín,” he interrupts. “It’s just the two of us here.”</p><p> Sergio sighs. “Martín,” he starts this time, voice heavy. “I wanted to apologize.”</p><p> Martín looks away with a chuckle. “Apologize for what?”</p><p> “Well, I,” Sergio pushes his glasses up with a nervous hand. “I was the one who told Andrés that he… He had to leave you. That you were too dangerous for the plan.”</p><p> Martín already knew that, but hearing it said out loud still hurts, and his eyes burn as he forces himself to swallow, keep his chin raised high, look like a <i>real man.</i></p><p> “I now see that I was wrong. Separating you was just a big mistake—I think you should talk to Andrés. He isn’t… He isn’t doing well without you by his side and I can tell you miss him too—”</p><p> “What the fuck is this?” Martín interrupts, realizing he is angry by just how mad his voice sounds. “Huh? What do you want me to do, go to his room and beg him to take me back in so I can once again be like a dog by his side, following him everywhere?”</p><p> “Of course not, Martín,” Sergio rolls his eyes, “I’m telling you that maybe… We realize the worth of people only when we lose them and… You know Andrés as well as I do. He won’t ask for your forgiveness on his own. But he needs you, and you need him. And I need Martín and Andrés to be Martín and Andrés again for this heist to work.”</p><p> Martín chuckles. “It’s all about the heist, isn’t it? You broke us up for the heist, not caring that it would ruin me, and now you want me to go back to Andrés for the heist, not caring about the consequences at all. You’re a coward, Sergio.”</p><p> Sergio takes a step forward. “You think I don’t care about Andrés?” He snaps. “He is my—he is <i>my brother,</i> Martín. You think I don’t care about him? You think it doesn’t destroy me the way he looks at you, knowing I’m the one that caused all that unnecessary pain?”</p><p> Martín can’t quite look at Sergio’s eyes then, so he looks away, but Sergio doesn’t stop, now that he started, he keeps going.</p><p> “You think I don’t care about you?” Martín swallows, shakes his head, wants Sergio to shut up. “I never thought—I didn’t think Andrés would do what he did, and if I had known, I wouldn’t have allowed him, Martín. What he did was cruel—but, there is a reason for it. I just… You just need to talk to Andrés, not for the heist, but for yourself, and for Andrés.”</p><p> “And also for the heist, right?” Martín asks with a chuckle, but Sergio doesn’t laugh, just keeps staring at him with those eyes, with those looks on his face, and Martín accepts defeat.</p><p> “It’s okay, Sergio,” he says after a few seconds, taking a step forward, and pulls Sergio in for a hug, and Sergio melts into it, finally letting the tension go from his shoulders. “I forgive you. It wasn’t your fault anyway.”</p><p>*</p><p> Andrés turns around when Martín enters the room, and he smiles. “<i>Martín,</i>” he breaths, like it’s a whole new word, not just Martín’s name, like it means something else, like it means everything, and—</p><p> “Andrés,” Martín replies, trying to put the same energy into it, trying to say everything without saying anything.</p><p> “Are you fucking my little brother now?” Andrés asks, trying to be cruel, but Martín can see right through him, Martín knows him too well, maybe even better than the man knows himself.</p><p> “You know I’ve always found intelligence attractive,” he replies with a shrug, and they are both walking forward, tiny steps, like they don’t want to get closer, but they are two magnets, constantly pulling each other in.</p><p> Andrés chuckles, looking away. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you well, Andrés,” Martín sighs.</p><p> “Do you know why I stayed married to Yvonne for two weeks after what happened?”</p><p> That’s his fourth wife. Martín swallows. “No,” he replies, “tell me.”</p><p> Andrés takes another step forward, only an arm’s length of space between them, and Martín wants to reach out, to touch Andrés like he used to all the time, but the little amount of space seems like miles when he remembers why he shouldn’t, why it’s not good for him to be this close to Andrés—</p><p> “When you yelled at her, I wanted to take your side,” Andrés can’t quite look at Martín, and Martín misses the man’s eyes, tries to chase them, “do you know how scary it is to realize you don’t care about your own wife at all when the man that’s supposed to be just your best friend is involved? The woman I was in love with didn’t matter to me at all, not as much as you did.”</p><p> Martín inhales a shaky breath, shakes his head. “Andrés,” he starts, ready to beg for the man to stop because he can’t take it, he can’t take it—</p><p> “Martín,” Andrés just replies, and he takes another step forward, unsure, and their eyes meet again, brown spilling into blue. “I wanted to prove to myself that I cared about her more than I cared for you. I wanted to prove to you that I didn’t care.”</p><p> Martín chuckles. “You did it.”</p><p> “Maybe,” Andrés shrugs, “but I still couldn’t stay married to her for long, seeing the way you looked whenever she was around.”</p><p> “What are you trying to say, Andrés?” Martín asks, because he needs Andrés to be clear, say exactly what he wants, what he feels, because he can’t play this guessing game anymore.</p><p> “I’m trying to say that I loved you more than the woman I was in love with,” Andrés says to that, and Martín’s breath catches in his throat, his lungs burning, “I’m trying to say that I still love you. I’ve never loved anyone as much as I love you, Martín.”</p><p> Martín shakes his head, looks away, because it’s too good to be true, it can’t be right, but then Andrés takes another step forward, and if Martín was to look up, their noses would touch, that’s how close they are, Martín can feel the way Andrés is breathing, that’s how close they are, all Martín wants to do is bury his face in Andrés’ neck again like he always used to, that’s how close they are—</p><p> “You left, Andrés,” Martín speaks through the lump in his throat, “and you didn’t just leave. You tried to ruin me before you walked away.”</p><p> “I know, Martín, mi amor,” Andrés breaths out, they are so close that they don’t need to speak louder than a whisper, and it feels more intimate than it has the right to be. “I thought it would be better this way.”</p><p> “How could it be better for me to lose you, Andrés?” Martín snaps, “you knew how in love I was with you. How could it be better for me to watch you leave?”</p><p> “I’m dying,” Andrés says, and the time comes to a slow stop in the room, the air around them freezes. Martín looks up, and their noses are touching now, his vision blurry with tears, but he can still make out the way Andrés is staring at him, with so much pain in his eyes.</p><p> “No,” Martín says, denies, he doesn’t want to hear it, it can’t be true, it’s not fair—</p><p> “I’ve got my mother’s disease,” and Martín wants to put his hand over Andrés’ mouth, physically make him shut up, make him stop—</p><p> “Andrés, no,” he says, and tears are streaming down his face now, he is too tired to hold them back. “No, please.”</p><p> “That’s why I left, Martín,” Andrés leans forward, their foreheads touching now, and Martín closes his eyes, breathes in the air Andrés is exhaling, wishes he could inhale the man himself. “Out of all the people in the world, I don’t want you to see me a few months later, when I’m at my weakest, when I’m a drooling mess.”</p><p> “I don’t care,” Martín snaps. “I don’t care about any of that, Andrés. You can’t be telling me that you knew you had a few months left to live and you chose to spend them away from me. That’s not fair—that’s not fair at all. You should have told me, and we would have made each minute count, each second. You shouldn’t have left me, Andrés.”</p><p> “I know, mi amor,” Andrés says, and the sob that’s been building inside Martín’s chest finally leaves him, in a painful way. “I’m selfish anyway. I couldn’t stay away.”</p><p> Martín pulls Andrés in, hugs the man tight, and as he sobs into the man’s shoulder, he can feel Andrés’ own tears on his neck. “I won’t let you die, Andrés,” he says, like a promise, and maybe it is, “we will find a cure. We will. I won’t let you leave me again.”</p><p> They stay like that, tangled together, for a few more minutes, until Martín stops crying, until he swallows his meaningless promises, stops telling Andrés that he won’t die, that Martín won’t let him because—</p><p> Because in the end, it’s all just meaningless words, and Martín knows one day, he will have to say goodbye to Andrés, and wake up missing him every day once again.</p><p>*</p><p> It’s a slow process. Nothing goes back to the way they used to in just a day.</p><p> But after a few weeks, it’s like nothing has changed after all.</p><p> One day, during breakfast, Martín takes a huge sip of Andrés’ coffee and smirks when the man rolls his eyes because Andrés’ lips are twitching, trying to fight off a smile.</p><p> “What the fuck,” Denver says, and Martín almost drops the cup out of shock. He looks away from Andrés to find the whole table staring at them with various different faces of shock.</p><p> “What?” He snaps, putting the cup down and rolling his shoulders.</p><p> “Nothing, nothing,” Denver is quick to say, putting his hands up and Martín rolls his eyes.</p><p> “Ok, so, Denver, Manila, and Moscow are family,” Tokyo starts, counting on her fingers, “The Professor and Berlin know each other, and <i>Andrés</i> and <i>Martín</i> are closer than we thought too. Anyone want to admit now that they are secretly married?”</p><p> “Maybe Helsinki and Nairobi,” Rio says with a laugh and Martín wants to jump up from the table and slap him.</p><p> “Helsinki is gay,” Martín snaps, “you two on the other hand,” he continues, pointing at Rio and Tokyo, “I can hear you fucking every night and it’s driving me sick.”</p><p> “I didn’t complain when I heard you and Helsinki ‘wrestling’ at 2 am,” Tokyo replies with a raised eyebrow and a shrug.</p><p> Martín rolls his eyes once again, looking at Andrés like <i>can you believe this shit?</i></p><p> “Oh, oh!” Nairobi yells, pointing at Andrés, “he is jealous!”</p><p> The Professor comes back from the bathroom to pure chaos, everyone at the table arguing with each other, and turns around to leave for another five minutes when he sees Martín start throwing his eggs at Tokyo while yelling insults at her in a thick Argentinian accent.</p><p>*</p><p> They are laying together in bed, and Martín knows he has to ask, he just has to—</p><p> “Andrés,” he sighs into the man’s chest, “you know I’m still a man, right?”</p><p> Andrés stiffens under him. “Of course I do, Martín.”</p><p> “Well, you told me it’s impossible because you like women too much,” Martín continues, and he can tell Andrés is trying to look into his eyes but he refuses open his own, because if he looks into Andrés’ eyes, it will be too real all of a sudden. “Yet here you are,” he says, “I just need to know it’s not because you think I’m—I’m a woman. Because I’m not. I’m a man.”</p><p> Andrés sits up, and with him, Martín moves too, his eyes blinking open, and the room is too dark, he needs a few seconds to adjust but he can still see the way Andrés is staring at him.</p><p> “Mi amor,” Andrés says, reaching a hand forward, and running it through Martín’s hair, so gentle, like Martín is a fragile, antique glass that might just break. “I loved you even before I knew. And I love you still. I wanted to deny it, but I can’t anymore. You are a man, and I love you. I don’t care about anything else. You’re my Martín, and you’re just Martín to me, no matter what.”</p><p> Martín’s eyes are burning, and he doesn’t try to blink away the tears, just lets them fall, but this time with happiness, and when their lips meet again for the first time since Andrés left, the kiss still tastes salty from tears, but this time, Martín knows as he holds Andrés tight, Andrés won’t turn around and leave again.</p><p>*</p><p> Rio gets off the table and they need a new volunteer. Martín looks around the room, and then shrugs, taking off his t-shirt.</p><p> Everyone cheers and whistles, and Martín dances a little bit, giving them a show, before Sergio clears his throat, making everyone shut up.</p><p> “It would be better if a woman volunteered,” he says, pushing his glasses up, “to avoid—well, to avoid—”</p><p> “Don’t worry, Professor,” Martín chuckles, “I don’t have a dick anyway.”</p><p> The whole room goes silent in a different way then.</p><p> “What?” He asks, taking off his pants too.</p><p> Nairobi giggles, a little unsure. Tokyo is staring at his chest. “My eyes are up here, boludo,” Martín snaps, rolling his eyes.</p><p> Tokyo snaps out of it.</p><p> “Wait, wait, so you,” Denver starts, not knowing how to go on. He makes a scissor motion with his hand and raises his eyebrows, expecting Martín to understand. “Get it… cut off? Like Manila?”</p><p> “No, idiot,” Martín snaps, feeling a little like his skin is tingling because of the way everyone is staring at him, some of them even going as far as to stare right at his briefs, trying to see if there is something in there. “Yes, like Manila, but the difference is I never had a dick in the first place.”</p><p> “Oh,” Denver says, catching up fast, and he is a huge idiot, but he’s not judgmental at all. He just accepts is and moves on.</p><p> Andrés and Helsinki, the ones who already knew don’t even blink anyway.</p><p> The rest are a little slower. “Are we doing this or what?” Martín asks, getting the marker and holding it out.</p><p> Tokyo takes it without hesitation, and even goes as far as to smile at him gently. Martín would roll his eyes, but he just closes them instead, because they are getting a little teary.</p><p>*</p><p> “No,” Martín replies without hesitation.</p><p> “Martín,” Andrés snaps, “I only have a few months left anyway. If things get messy in there, it makes sense for me to—”</p><p> “Shut up,” Martín interrupts, pushing Andrés. “You’re an idiot if you think I would ever leave you behind.”</p><p> “You need to!” Andrés yells, before he looks away, takes a deep breath. “I need you to promise that if things get messy in there, which they will, you will leave without me, because I don’t care about anything else, I just need to know that you will be safe.”</p><p> “You asshole, that’s exactly how I feel about you! Would you agree if I asked you to do what you’re asking me right now?”</p><p> “It’s not the same—”</p><p> “Yes, it is!” Martín snaps, pushing Andrés again, and his eyes are burning, with anger, with sadness, because it’s not fair that Andrés is dying, bit by bit every day, it’s not fair that he thinks Martín would ever leave him behind, and be able to just move on with his life—</p><p> “Martín, if you don’t promise me right now, I’m not going in,” Andrés says, like it’s a choice.</p><p> Martín laughs. “Let’s not go in then, Andrés. Do you think I love the fucking plan more than I love you?”</p><p> A silence falls in the room, sudden and heavy. It’s the first time Martín has said it out loud.</p><p> Andrés slumps, melts, and Martín takes a step forward, so they can breathe the same air, so it’s easier to catch Andrés’ eyes though the man tries to look away.</p><p> “I know you, Andrés, and I’m telling you right now if you try to pull a stupid stunt like sacrificing yourself, I will stay behind with you, and no power in the universe can make me leave you behind,” Andrés looks at Martín again, brown meeting blue, blue meeting brown, and everything seems easier for a second. Martín smiles. “I promise you, you will spend your last minutes with me, no matter what.”</p><p> And they meet in the middle, close the distance, and when their lips meet, it’s like a religious experience, like seeing the rainbow for the first time, or feeling the hot sun on your skin after being cold for years.</p><p> “Woah!” Someone yells, and they jump apart. Nairobi stands in the doorway, looking sheepish. “I didn’t see anything!”</p><p> “Neither did I,” Tokyo yells from where she is hiding. “Don’t mind us, just carry on.”</p><p> “I just won 20 bucks, baby!” Rio says, peeking his head from the door with a smile, and Martín grabs the nearest object and throws it at the kid, who yelps, and then runs away, laughing like a madman.</p><p> When he looks at Andrés again, rolling his eyes, Andrés is smiling at him, such a soft smile, paired with that gentle look in his eyes.</p><p> “I love you, mi amor,” Andrés says, and Martín suddenly forgets about his anger, and melts like a sugar cube into Andrés’ arms.</p><p> “I love you too,” he says, and they kiss again.</p><p> Seconds later, when Sergio yells for them to go to bed, Martín just holds out a middle finger, and smiles against Andrés’ lips, not stopping the kiss for even a minute.</p><p>*</p><p>fin.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>think i might write another one-shot with these two bc obviously andres isnt gonna die they will find a cure and ivehappily ever after bc i wrote this and i say so</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>find me at <a href="https://twitter.com/wlwloser">twitter!</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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